


The Book of Ruth

by Coriander_Dreams



Category: GLOW (2017)
Genre: Divorce, F/F, First Kiss, Forgiveness, Glitter, Wrestling, ironically? enacting racially driven stereotypes, mentions of past dubcon (non-graphic), wrestling is definitionally homoerotic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-11-21 01:45:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11347329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriander_Dreams/pseuds/Coriander_Dreams
Summary: Debbie doesn't leave Mark because of Ruth. Well, not in the way anyone was expecting.It's like wrestling: the simplicity of the surface masks the churning complexity underneath.





	1. Wither thou goest

**Author's Note:**

> Ha ha first work in this fandom let's see how it goes. I definitely marathoned this entire series in a day and I definitely had a lot of unresolved Big Gay Feelings so here we are, addressing those. I've got at least another chapter to write so the rating is probably going to increase but like, let's play it by ear.

            "Don't try to make this about yourself," Debbie says with a determined frown from the doorstep (if it can rightly be called that) of the room Ruth and Shelia share, "But I just got divorced and you're going to go buy me a fucking drink."

            "Oh, um, okay" It's not Ruth's most eloquent moment but she didn't expect this to happen. Not the divorce, not really (even though she knew Debbie had moved back out), and definitely not her best friend showing up as in her doorway as if she weren't, you know, the impetus for this whole divorce scenario.

            "God, look at you." Debbie sighs as Ruth grabs her coat, trails behind her to her car. "You don't need to look guilty. I already said this isn't about you."

            "You also said I made it so that we can never have a normal conversation, so." Ruth replies, sliding in to the passenger seat. Debbie turns towards her for a moment, clicking her seatbelt into place with a sigh.

            "I'm not doing this to lord the smoldering ruins of my life over you. I'm doing this because this is a big moment," she pauses and brings her hands up, her gestures in a way equal parts vehement and lost, as if the space between her palms had the power to convey something she isn't even sure she knows how to consider, "this is a big moment," she repeats, softer, "and I miss you."

            "I miss you too." Ruth sucks in a breath, as if trying to take back her automatic response. She doesn't have a right to it, she knows that. She's got no ground to stand on for missing this woman she sees nearly every day as they begin to rehearse for the second season of GLOW. Not when she was a co-conspirator in the putting this distance between them. Not when it was her choice.

 

            They drive in silence. Ruth was expecting them to land at a bar somewhere, but she keeps her surprise to herself when they pull up to a liquor store and Debbie hands her a bottle of a tequila. She pays for it without complaint and follows Debbie back to the car, the air between them remaining colder and stiller than she'd like, even with everything they've been through in the ring together. Their victories, how far they've come.

 

            Debbie drives out of the city, to a hill from which the twinkling lights just beginning to be visible as the day dims into dusk look small and far away. It's cool out and they stay in the car, the bottle unopened between them.

            "I know I shouldn't ask you this--" Debbie begins.

            "You can ask me anything." Ruth jumps to interrupt.

            "I know. But I shouldn't want to know. It doesn't even matter now. But here's the deal, if you answer my question, I'll answer the question I know you're swallowing every time you look at me."

            "Okay," Ruth replies, "Sounds fair." Debbie shoots her a look at that and Ruth gulps, trying to melt into the upholstery of her seat. That's right. Nothing about this is fair, and she's the one who made it that way.

            "Why did you sleep with him?" It's a question Ruth's been waiting such a long time for. She has a million answers rehearsed in her head and they jostle for space like the crowd at a match, loud and inconsiderate and goddamn impossible to ignore but equally impossible to explain.

            "I," She tries to begin. Stops, starts again. "I wanted...to understand."

            "To understand what?" Debbie's voice is soft, gentler than Ruth's used to hearing now, but incredulous nonetheless.

            "I don't know. He, I never liked him. I know that sounds...impossible, considering, but I never did. And we were drunk and I was lonely and he was lonely and you weren't there and I think, God I was so drunk I barely remember but I was sad and restless and missing when it was you and me, you know, and we lived next door to each other and we went to the same auditions and the same classes and the same shitty nightclubs and....we were on the same wavelength, you know? But that was so long ago. And you'd, you'd gotten married and stopped working and had a _baby_ , for Christ's sake, and I didn't understand you any more, not the way that'd I'd used to so I...I just wanted to know what it was like. For you."

            The silence between them stretches for a moment.

            "That doesn't make any sense." Debbie says, finally, but it's without anger.

            "I know," Ruth gives her a watery smile.

            "I'm sorry I left you behind."

            "No, no you don't--I don't deserve--It was my bad decision. Probably the worst one I've ever made, but _mine_ and not, not your fault or your responsibility or, or," Ruth runs out words, grasping Debbie's hand.

            "I didn't leave him because of you. That's not your fault either." Debbie interlaces her fingers, gives her hand a gentle squeeze.

            "Oh," Ruth really doesn't know what to say to that.

            "I left him," Debbie says with a deep breath, "because he just _sucks_. He can't deal with me having any sort of life other than him and Randy, he gets all moody and shitty about me being successful, and GLOW, but it didn't even start with GLOW he was always like that! And I thought it was fine, but it wasn't, because I didn't want to be around him. And you can't be married to someone you don't want to be around."

            They're both silent again for a long while, watching dusk move into nightfall, the lights in the valley below them growing stronger, coming in to motion and life. It's Ruth, finally who speaks again.

            "He really is an asshole."

            "I know, right? What a shithead." And then, out of nowhere--or somewhere, surely, but nowhere either of them can quite name, they're laughing together.

            "When, when Sam saw him," Ruth says, breathless, "he asked me why I cheated with someone who looked like a cabbage patch kid."

            "Oh my god," Debbie guffaws, "He does, doesn't he?"

            "He really does!"

            "Do you know what he did when I tried to sign the divorce papers the first time? He asked me to therapeutically lean against him!"

            "Therapeutic lean? What the hell even?"

            "I know right!" There are tears running down their faces and they're clutching their sides and they look at each other.

 

            And Ruth doesn't know if she's forgiven, which is just as well, because Debbie doesn't know if she forgives her. But they're on the same wavelength again, and they finally open the tequila, passing it back and forth and leaning so their feet are on the dash and God, Debbie has missed this. She knew she missed her friend. But as she looks at Ruth grinning in the near-complete darkness of the night she's struck with the realization that she didn't know quite how much she'd missed Ruth until this moment.

 

            It isn't until later that she wonders what it means that she left her husband but is unwilling to leave her best friend. She knows it was mutual, their indiscretion, at least the second time, but she's always blamed him more. Ruth isn't married, after all, and Ruth is...Ruth. He's just, as they've established, an asshole. This is what she tells herself, at least, trying to ignore the clenching in her stomach she doesn't quite care to examine.


	2. Wither thou stayest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good gracious thank you all for your kudos and kind words! I legitimately didn't know if anyone was going to see this, much less read it, when I published the first chapter so y'all have taken me by surprise :)

The new season brings new plots and new match ups but some things never change, and pitting America against Russia is one of those things. Sam has his twists and Bash has his costumes and glitter and grandiosity but just like before, it's Ruth and Debbie who go the extra mile. They rehearse again and again and again, try to bring something new into each match while perfecting the classics into that one moment the audience always waits for. There's a joy in it, even just during rehearsal, that neither of them expected and even with the normalcy of repetition that joy doesn't fade.

           

            As much fun as they have rehearsing, just the two of them, as much as the sense of wonder in the power they each have over this common _thing_ they're creating is no more alive than when they're planning their choreography, going through their fight again and again until each moment is natural and fluid, nothing quite compares to fight night. It's the thrill of performance, certainly, that's not new for either of them: But there's something about the sheer intentional _overkill_ of a wrestling show, about the vociferousness of the audience, that is unique. It's the glitter, maybe, and the degree to which the crowd seems to _believe_ them. Sure, the characters are obviously--or, Ruth hopes it's obvious and Arthie would probably argue it isn't--affected, but it's hard to tell how much the spectators buy in the fights. And that means they're doing their jobs right, certainly. They're making it look like it hurts much more than it does. And it also means that, while Zoya and Liberty Belle are both completely _preposterous_ stereotypes, Ruth feels like she inhabits Zoya's skin so much better than that of anyone else she's ever portrayed.

 

            Sometimes she wonders if she fits in Zoya better than she does in herself.

 

            Debbie would punch Liberty Belle if she could. Don't get her wrong she _loves_ this goddamn show and working with all these beautiful raucous wild women more than pretty much anything else she's ever done in her professional life. Hell, she loves it a damn sight more than a few things she's done in her personal life too. And Liberty is how she gets to be a part of this, and she loves her for it. Loves too the attention of the audience, the spotlight of being the all-American headliner hero. Liberty Belle is the right character for that role and she knows it, from the shine of her wavy blonde hair to the southern twang and cliché witticisms she adopts. But God, Debbie's known a few girls a little like Liberty Belle and her character is all the things she _hated_ about those girls condensed into single point of being. She knows, too, that not all those things she hates are absent in herself--not in Liberty, in _her_ , Debbie Eagan--and she doesn't quite know how to sit with that.

 

            Which is why, surprising everyone--especially Sam--she walks into the gym one morning after a successful fight and as they're going through the roster for next week's match announces, "For the final match this week, Zoya is going to beat me."

            For a moment the whole gym is silent as everyone tries to pick their jaws up off the floor. Melrose is the first to speak.

            "The fuck?"

            "It's like Steel Horse," she says, ignoring how Cherry raises an eyebrow, Carmen blushes slightly, and Melrose gives her an absolutely filthy grin, "Everyone goes wild for his fights against Mr. Monopoly because once Mr. Monopoly _won_ and when he did he took something from him and now they all want to know when he's gonna get it back. No one's going to keep watching if our matches go the same every time."

            " _Yes_ ," Sam is so enthusiastic he gestures with his clipboard, "That's good, let's run with it. What's Zoya going to take?"

            "She could take her man," Rhonda chimes in--mostly for the sake of watching Ruth squirm a bit. Melrose guffaws. Debbie freezes.

            "Or not. She could not." Ruth shakes her head vehemently, cheeks heating up.

            "Yeah that's maybe a little too close to home." Sam concedes.

            "We don't want to be _too_ much like Steel Horse," Carmen's soft voice adds, glancing sympathetically at Ruth.

            "Yeah, let's do something new," Debbie says after a long moment, "Something original."

            "All right so what could Liberty have that Zoya would want to take away?" Sam looks expectantly at the wrestlers.

            "I don't know," Justine replies, raising her hand slightly but not waiting to be called on, "the moon?" Almost immediately, protests arise from all corners.

            "Oh come _on_ "

            "That's preposterous."

            "How would you even wrestle for _the moon?_ "

            "No wait!" Ruth interjects, "that's perfect."

            "What? Aren't you supposed to be our resident nerd?" Sam turns towards her.

            "Hello?" Rhonda gestures to herself.

            "No offense girl but he's talking _offstage_ ," Tammé is quick to clarify. Rhonda just shrugs in response.

            "How do you wrestle someone's wife into losing her memory and thinking you're evil?" Ruth continues, "It doesn't have to be reasonable. None of what we do is reasonable. And our characters are so obviously not like, people as much as, as representations of nations. It's how we designed them. We can't make them care about _people_ things like boyfriends or, or...husbands because it wouldn't make any sense. But obviously the US and Russia care about the moon. It's like some sort of space prize that we _won_ and we've held on to winning it for so long that if Russia came up and was like, 'oh ha ha I'm taking your prize now' imagine how pissed we'd be. It's the perfect scab move." Ruth looks around the room, searching for support. Her peers are mostly quiet, for once, but as her eyes fall on Sheila she has an epiphany. "We could use Sheila somehow! Because werewolves and the moon, right?" There's a long pause. The women mostly look at Ruth in some combination of confusion and judgment--Carmen nodding a little, Melrose pulling face--until finally, Sam nods sharply.

            "You know what?" He throws his hands (and thus, his ubiquitous clipboard) into the air with a rustle of paper. "Fuck it. We've done weirder shit."

            "Have we?" Cherry questions, but they move on without further comment.

            Finally, Ruth finds Debbie's eyes with her own. She's off in the corner, and she gives Ruth a brilliant smile. Finally, Ruth lets out the breath she's been holding.

            Because it doesn't matter what Sam thinks, not really. They ignore him like 70% of the time anyway. And it doesn't matter what the other women think either.

            But the more GLOW consumes her life, the more her universe hinges on what Debbie thinks. This isn't new. Their friendship was always just the two of them, and never comparable to any of their other relationships. It's just, it's different when they're working together. Ruth can't quite put her finger on it, wouldn't dare try to name it.

            Something is different now, after all they've been through.

 

            The week passes in another training-montage blur of affected accents and laughter and increasingly wild flips, flops, holds, and the occasional gut punch. This fight is going to be intense--it has to be, they have to be so evenly matched for it to make sense when Ruth finally wins for the first time. By the day of the fight they could preform it in their sleep but it's the least certain either of them have ever been. They're used, now, to the audience’s reactions to each of them, and now they're doing something so _different_ and it makes Ruth feel all jittery and unsettled.

            Makeup gets applied and costumes put on. Ruth lines her lips dark and dangerous while Debbie applies a gloss just a light enough rendition of cherry-red to avoid sullying Liberty Belle's virginal good-girl image. Hair is big and clothes catch the lights and shimmer as they enter the stage. Their dialog passes in a joyful waterfall of bad puns and delightful overacting. They have fun with it. Sheila comes out in her cage, scampers over behind Liberty Belle, raises her head so she can clip a collar around her neck (an image that makes Ruth swallow hard, before she remembers how hard they're all pretending that this is family-friendly). And then they fight.

            And they've fought so many times--for real and pretending--but never before like this. Their bodies are so in sync as the upper hand oscillates between them, and when the bell rings and Keith raises her hand in victory, the audience an energetic, booing mass--Ruth doesn't have to force the laugh that falls from her mouth. She is atop the world.

           

            It's not clear to either of them--the rush of performance adrenaline and the slight stings of pain from landings and blows that even when purposefully over exaggerated still leave slight marks the next morning--how, exactly, they get backstage. But they do, and they're somehow alone in the service corridor and Ruth's saying something, but Debbie can't quite hold on to what it is, she's too taken by the brightness of her smile. She's too captivated by the way that Ruth is still so close to her--still touching her, in fact, her hand gentle and warm against her arm. And she isn't sure what she's thinking, she isn't thinking but it feels like gravity shifts and she's plummeting straight into Ruth, brushing one hand up along the nape of her neck as she brings their lips together.

            And Ruth freezes for a second, and Debbie's almost sure it's finally the end of everything until Ruth's lips open beneath her. Their lipstick is sticky and smearing all over their faces--it'll be such a mess to clean up--but it doesn't even matter, because Ruth is wrapping her arms around her waist, brushing her palms against her lower back, bringing them closer together.

            It's not a nice kiss, not sweet or gentle or dainty. But of course it isn't. It's them, with all their violence and mess and dizzying desire. There's a dull thud and Ruth only barely registers the slam of her back against the wall, it's insignificant given the curtain of hair glowing golden around her, the salty sweat and sweet lip gloss and indescribable warmth of the taste of Debbie's lips against her own.

            She thinks she must be dreaming. She thinks she must be flying. She thinks this cannot possibly be real.

            But when the background noise of the crowd dies down and the door around the corner swings open, when they finally pull apart, the world reorders itself again.

            And Ruth knows this has happened.

            And Debbie sucks in a breath, releases it in a shuddering exhale before saying her name, "Ruth," she begins, tired and exhilarated all at once.

            "It's all right," Ruth nuzzles the side of her neck, pressing gentle kisses to the red marks beginning to form on her pale pink skin--marks she's left, she realizes with a rush of desire, "We'll figure it out." She slips her hand into Debbie's leads her down to the dressing room so they can hurriedly clean their faces, make what they've been up to somewhat less obvious before the room fills with the other wrestlers, with their friends. They don't speak more after that. They can't, swept up into the communal energy of a show well done. They catch each other in lingering glances, the kiss and all it's what-ifs and implications growing between them into a palpable thing, a thing that must be carried with both hands by the time Ruth announces she'll ride back to the motel with Debbie in her car "to keep her company" while the rest of the team clambers back into Melrose's limo.


	3. And your people

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes sorry this has taken so long: Thank you for all your kind words and gentle nudges to get back to this. Please note the rating change--if you wish to skip the explicit stuff stop reading at about "Oh thank god" and start again at "They rest against each other"   
> I hope you enjoy :)

Debbie doesn't drive back to the hotel. That isn't, she knows, the place to have this conversation, with the curious (and occasionally outright prying) eyes of their friends on them.

 

            They haven't spoken, since Ruth got in her car with a gentle smile. There is too much to say, maybe, that it gets stuck Debbie's throat, her mind racing and stomach rolling with uncertainty. And Ruth, leaning back in her seat, glancing over at Debbie as much as she can without staring outright, well--she doesn't know where to start either.

 

            They go to the viewpoint again. It's odd how, with just one conversation, Debbie's come to think of it as _their space_ , but there you have it, and here they are.

 

            For another moment silence continues to lie heavy between them, the inside of the car dark but for the faint orange glow of city lights in the distance, and strange blue light of the moon. Their eyes adjust slowly but surely, and as they do Ruth turns her body towards Debbie, sitting sideways in her seat, one leg tucked beneath her hip her whole being a mess of angles that Debbie finds so wonderfully, horribly captivating. She doesn't think she'll ever be able to look at Ruth the same way again, and that scares her.

 

            "Debbie," Ruth leans her head against the seatback, looking at her with unabashed openness, her face soft. "It's all right," she repeats. It doesn't feel all right, Debbie thinks, it feels like she's fallen into wonderland and all the things that should be familiar are different and dizzy and upside down.

            "I..." Debbie begins, shaky, "I don't know what I'm doing." It isn't what she meant to say, she doesn't think, but it's true. Ruth smiles in response.

            "Me neither. But I know," she swallows hard, condensing her courage, "I know I love you. And I think I've been in love with you for a long time now." The air between them is thick and silent for an indefinable moment as that sinks in, for both of them. "And if you want to go back, and pretend that...kiss never happened, I can do that. I can do that, but, but if you want..."

            "I do," Debbie interrupts her, her hand reaching up to cup Ruth's cheek, to stroke her thumb along the side of her face. "I want...so much, I want you. To be with you. To, to touch you."

            "Oh," Ruth's breath is unsteady, "Oh thank god." In a rush she pulls Debbie to her, slides her teeth along her bottom lip in a bruising kiss. Debbie whimpers in response, and struggles to get free of the steering wheel, climb over the space between them as she straddles Ruth's lap. It isn't graceful but they are both too captivated by each other to care, too overwhelmed as Debbie kneels above Ruth, kisses her way down her neck to suck at her pulse point.

 

            Ruth clutches Debbie to her, her hands tracing formless patterns on her back and sides as her head tips back with a groan, her hips canting up of seemingly their own accord. Debbie pushes her own hips down in response, a slow friction building between them that is tantalizing and nowhere near enough as Ruth's hands slip under Debbie's shirt, as she digs her nails into her back with enough force to make Debbie moan.

 

            Debbie isn't wearing a bra, so when she leans back just enough to guide Ruth's hand to the curve of her breast Ruth has no trouble at all finding her nipples, pinching and twisting. Debbie's head drops down to her shoulder, presses into the nape of her neck as her hands rest on Ruth's waist, clutching at the soft brown dress she wears, almost incidentally bunching it up from where it falls just above her knees higher, higher until it catches between the combined weight of the two of them and the seat of the car.

 

            A moment later Debbie pulls back slightly, and Ruth would be confused except for the hunger evident in her eyes, her ragged breath as she slides off Ruth's lap on to the floor of the car, her hands on Ruth's bare thighs.

            " _Debbie,_ " Ruth breathes, desperate and overwhelmed as she grasps at Ruth's hips, slides her forward until she's at the edge of the vinyl seat. Debbie wordlessly kisses up from her knees to her hips, excruciatingly gentle as she comes to rest her head at the dip where her body meets her legs.

            Debbie takes a moment to breathe, to try and fail to slow the racing of her heart as the heat of their breath, their bodies builds around them and fogs the windows of the car. She's overwhelmed, deliciously so, by the indescribable _scent_ of her, by the trust inherent in the gentleness of Ruth's hand against the back of her head--not pushing, just stroking through her hair in a way that would be calming if, if she weren't about to ask...

            "Can I?" Her fingers trace the edges of Ruth's underwear.

            " _Please_ " Ruth affirms, and with that Debbie licks long, firm stripes along the very core of her, tasting the cotton of her panties and the wetness seeping through, sucking her into her mouth, the barrier between her lips and her cunt driving Ruth wild with frustrated desire.

 

            Debbie's wanted to do this for a long time, long since wondered what it would be like to taste a woman, to run her tongue through the folds of her labia. She knows this isn't something straight women want, isn't the primary thought in straight women's minds when they take their [ex-]husband's dicks between their lips, but it had been a recurring curiosity for her. She came to peace with that, more or less, long ago.

 

            And now, as she (finally!) draws her hands up to Ruth's waist, pulls her panties down and out of the way, as she licks up into her, sucks her swollen clit between her lips, as Ruth cries out beneath her, weaves her fingers through long blonde curls, as her mouth is coated in slick and Ruth's body bends over her---

            She feels powerful in a way she wasn't expecting. Feels her own pleasure rush through her, pointed and ignored at the apex of her thighs as she slides a finger inside Ruth, feels the texture of her, thrusts in time with her sucking at her clit until Ruth is begging for more and she's obliging, she's filling her with two fingers and then three, and Ruth's entire body shakes her release as she comes with a scream.

 

            "Debbie," Ruth mummers as she pulls her up atop her lap again, "Debbie," she repeats, dazed as she tastes herself on her lips with a moan.

            "Ruth," Debbie grinds desperately against her thigh, the edge of her hip, "Ruth please."

            "Of course. Of course sweetheart," Ruth hasn't called her that before and for some reason it makes Debbie's stomach clench, makes her dizzy with the rush of being _adored_ as Ruth undoes her shorts, pushes them down her legs just enough to be out of the way, to give her hand room as her fingers slide through the coarse curls over Debbie's cunt, find their way inside her, her thumb pushing against her clit in rough circles.

 

            It doesn't take long for Debbie to come.

 

            They rest against each other for a long moment after that, breathing returning to normal, softly kissing. Debbie feels so safe tucked in to Ruth's side, feels immortal, like time has no meaning compared to the warmth she feels here, the rush of endorphins and adrenaline slowing until they're both giggling at the absurdity of it all. Here she is, a full-grown woman, curled into the front seat of her car with her...lover, she supposes. _Girlfriend_ doesn't seem right, doesn't seem like an adequate way to describe Ruth when in this moment, Ruth is everything to her.

 

            They drive back to the motel. Slip in to Debbie's room way past curfew, strip and crash on the king sized bed in a euphoric mess, curl around each other in sleep.

 

            Sun leaks through the ineffective curtains the next morning as Ruth wakes up, blinking with sleep and the realization that everything the night before had been real. Debbie's up already, pulling a loose sweatshirt over her head. She's nervous, for a moment, ready to offer to forget it all until Debbie turns towards her and her face lights up in a smile.

            "Hey," she says softly. "Good morning."

            "Morning," Ruth replies with a smile as Debbie sits on the edge of the bed next to her, leans down to gently kiss her lips. "What're you up to?"

            "I've got to go pick up Randy from my parents. See you when I get back?"

            "Mmm," Ruth stretches away the last vestiges of sleep. "Can I go with you?"

            "You want to?" Debbie seems surprised.

            "Yeah of course," Ruth interlaces their fingers, squeezing her hand. "Your parents are always so sweet to me."

            "Okay," Debbie smiles in response, her heart indescribably full. "Come on then, you gotta get dressed."

            "Do I _have_ to?" Ruth mock-whines, getting out of bed.

            "Absolutely, clothing is not optional."

            "You sure about that?" Ruth teases, smirking at the way Debbie's eyes rake over her naked form.

            "Oh yeah," Debbie replies with a laugh, "As fun as a little good old fashioned exhibitionism is I'd rather not scar my parents for life"

            "You're no fun," Ruth gives her an exaggerated pout, kisses her deeply. "But reasonable, I suppose."

 

            Debbie's parents welcome Ruth warmly, as effusive as ever. They eat lunch together like they used to so often, before, and when Debbie's mom mentions how glad she is that they've made up from whatever fight they were having last she saw Ruth, Ruth catches Debbie's eye with a private smile. Back at the motel no one mentions that Ruth and Debbie arrive together with Randy, or that Ruth sits with Randy on lounge chair while Debbie swims.

 

            It's easy in a way neither of them expected, natural to spend the whole of their day together, simple to ignore the vague unspoken questions of their friends. Sooner or later they'll have to answer, have to define what they're doing, at least to themselves.

 

            But not today.

 

            Today they can just be.


End file.
